


Fine China

by VergerBloom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Hannibal Comforts Will, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Protective Hannibal Lecter, Romance, Sleeping Together, bed sharing, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergerBloom/pseuds/VergerBloom
Summary: The two times Hannibal and Will don't share a bed and the one time they do.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter One

The first night, Will dreams of Abigail.

He's in the ocean again, submerged in the dark water like coagulated blood, Hannibal's form beneath him like a shadow. He is about to close his eyes, submit and sink, when he sees her, drifting up towards their entangled bodies, dark hair billowing behind her. Her eyes are brighter than they were in death, like two orbs of spectral light, and her neck is free of scars. Her face is passive, as though she, like Will, has accepted her fate, and when he reaches out to touch her face, as he couldn't when she bled out in Hannibal's kitchen years ago, verdant green weeds the colour of his eyes latch onto her legs, pulling her back, back, down into the depths, and she sinks into the darkness she rose from.

Will wakes up in cold sweats, and he is vaguely aware that there are tears on his cheeks. He turns over, breathing heavily, and sees the outline of Hannibal's form in the darkness of the motel room, bed against the wall, head rested on his arms. His eyes are alert, sweeping Will's face, his tears. He feels naked, as though Hannibal can see his dreams reflected on the chipped plaster of the ceiling, light and lurid, a motif of sad dead girls and broken memories of red-stained crime scenes, laid out like an unfinished board of evidence.

"You have to release her, Will, and the rest," Hannibal's voice sounds far away, as though underwater, and Will wonders whether they really did perish when they hit the water, sunk into the silt holding each other, down to Abigail and the pull of the weeds. Will has the sudden urge to go to him, press his face into his neck, entangle their bodies as they did when he pitched them over the cliff edge, where all he could hear was the roar of the tide and Hannibal's slowing heartbeat. He wonders how it would sound now, in the calm after the storm, the epilogue neither of them expected to live to. Instead, he presses his face into his pillow and watches Hannibal's face, traces it over and over, until it's no longer distinct, just a shape in the dark, like light through water. 


	2. Chapter Two

They sleep in a disused cabin the next night, nestled at the edge of the forest, and Will dreams of his childhood. 

He dreams of his father's workshop at the Pascagoula ship yard. He's fixing a diesel engine, oil pooling around his fingers like ink. The musky scent of rain is in the air, and Will works deftly and efficiently, crouched in the weeds, mud soaking through his jeans. He feels content, almost, amongst the vines and ferns, the call of the redstarts and the gentle thrum of boat engines the only sounds that carry on the wind. He fixes the camshaft to the gasket and smiles to himself, excited to show his father his work, walking to the edge of the bank of the Mississippi. Outstretched before him, it feeds into the cerulean sky like a tributary into the sea, boats resting on the gentle current like driftwood, but when he kneels to rinse his hands in the water, it is his current self he sees reflected back at him, bloodied and scarred, and the oil on his hands stains red as it disperses into the water.

Will wakes up with a jolt, forgetting where he is for a moment until he sees Hannibal, sitting at the end of his bed. He's lit the fire in the hearth, and the light dances on his features, which soften when he puts his eyes on Will. 

"Did Abigail come to you again?" he asks after a moment, hands clasped in his lap. Will shakes his head, pressing himself up on his arms. 

"Not tonight," he replies quietly, bringing his knees up to his arms. The remnants of the dream still cling to him like the sand in his clothes. "I was at my father's boatyard, in Pascagoula, fixing engines," he finds Hannibal's eyes in the dark. "When I saw my reflection in the river, I looked how I do now, and the oil on my hands became blood." He rests his chin on his forearms. 

Hannibal smiles almost woefully, turning back to the fire. "An acceptance of your past and present," he says, face half-lit by the flames. "In order to let go, you have to accept your nature as it has always been," he continues, finally turning his face to Will. "You accepted who you are, which is who you've always been, even when you were fixing boats on the Mississippi." He presses up on his arms and stands, moving to Will and gently, almost cautiously, placing a hand to his forehead. "Now the past has to catch up."


	3. Chapter Three

They spend the third night in an abandoned country house in Chesapeake City. The lights don't work, but there's running water, and Will finds some half-burned candles in a drawer to light. 

Will finds Hannibal in the backyard, which is overgrown, ferns and vines tripping over each other in their journey to the sky. Hannibal's standing on the cracked patio, hands in his pockets, stained shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Despite the disarray of his clothes and the dirt under his nails, he stands tall and stoic, a statue on the patio, weathered and wind-chafed, but beautiful. 

Will walks slowly to him so they stand side by side against the sky, shoulder to shoulder. Hannibal's face angles towards him imperceptibly, but he remains silent, eyes fixed on a faraway point in the sky. They stand like that for a moment, gazing into the distance, as a chill creeps into the air and the white sky charrs black at the edges like embers. 

It's Hannibal who breaks the silence, turning his face to Will's. He looks younger, Will thinks, hair dull with remnants of seawater, face pink with sun or blood, he can't tell. 

"Do you imagine a different outcome, Will, to that night on the cliff?" he asks quietly, searching Will's face.

Will smiles, turning his face up to the sky. "I dream of it, I don't imagine it," he begins, mirroring Hannibal by slipping his hands into his pockets. He shivers despite himself; autumn is coming, browning the bracken and turning the air frigid. He turns to Hannibal. "I dream we drowned together, and that Abigail was waiting for us in the water, tethered to vines."

Hannibal's lips twitch, eyes warm. "A simpler ending to our story."

Will nods, pressing closer to Hannibal against the wind. "We don't have an ending, not yet." He turns to Hannibal then, and sees his face reflected in his eyes, drawn and pale but calmer, somehow, still.

Hannibal nods, eyes never leaving Will's. "I suppose we get to make one, now."

Something switches in Will's brain then, suddenly, like it did the night they killed Dolarhyde, something irrevocable. He closes the distance between them, pressing both hands to Hannibal's neck, and kisses his open mouth, eyes fluttering shut. Hannibal spreads his palms against Will's back, burning through the thin cotton, but Will wants him closer, taking them gently and pressing them against his lower back. Hannibal shivers, sliding them to Will's hips, pulling him flush against him, and Will feels Hannibal's heartbeat, rapid against his own, like the beating of wings. His words from the Uffizi gallery come back to him then like the smoke in the October air, the day he dropped his forgiveness, ' _we're conjoined._ ' He'd meant it then, he realised, every word of it; the past just hadn't quite caught up yet, the tea cup still half-broken on the floor. Only under Hannibal's hands had it reformed. 

When Will returns from boarding the door shut, Hannibal is sitting on a single mattress on the floor, painted in gold by a candle in the centre of the room. Will enters silently, bare feet padding on the wood, standing unsurely by the edge of the mattress. He feels that familiar pull towards Hannibal, like the tug of a stream’s current, but something staunches the flow, after everything. Wordlessly, Hannibal turns and lies back on the mattress, staring up at a point on the ceiling, his movements an admission. Will cautiously reflects his movements, lying back on the mattress, arms over his chest, shoulders touching like they did in the garden. 

Neither of them speak for a moment. Outside, it has started to rain, clamouring against the walls and filling the room with the heady scent of clay. A sudden draught dances through the room, snuffing out the candle, the ghoulish light from the half moon outside the window casting them both in silver. Even in the dark, Will feels Hannibal’s eyes on him. 

Carefully, Will turns on his side to face Hannibal, gently pressing his body against his, face against the hollow of his throat. Hannibal stills for a moment, breath hitching, before he envelopes Will in his arms, face against his hair. _It’s easier to accept yourself in the dark_ , Will thinks, as Hannibal cards a hand through his hair, remembering Dolarhyde, how black the blood looked as it pooled around their feet. He feels Hannibal’s heartbeat against his cheek, as he did before the fall, and, just like that night, allows that to be the last thing he feels before he falls asleep. 

That night, he dreams he is floating on his back in a stream of red, the one he taught Abigail to fish in. His eyes are upturned to the moon, the white light burning his irises, and he thrashes to turn himself over, to sink into the black liquid, escape its glare, when he feels strong hands uproot him from the stream and drag him to an embankment, beneath the reeds. When he wakes up panting, sweating through the chill, he feels those same hands wrapped around his waist, stroking his lower back, warming him through his clothes, and he’s infinitely grateful he didn't drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rewatching season 3 and had a lot of feelings so this is a result of that lol. Thank you for reading <3


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